A great influence of mine is Gertrude Stein, who said, people may come and go, party talk always stays the same. There is text in a room. People come and go, but the talk doesn’t change. It doesn’t matter who says what. I don’t believe in dialogue. I don’t believe in plot. I don’t believe in storytelling. I believe in something else — in communication. I don’t interpret texts, I don’t use metaphor. Our texts are very concrete, very direct. We try and communicate with people in the audience.

“Part of this aspect of research which is analogous to taking a route across many terrains is about going to something without going to do the thing it’s there for, like going to the library without reading books. Of course that’s the most literal, kind of negative aspect of research, but one component of art as research has to do with not using a pen to stir your coffee with but looking at the relationships between the pen and the coffee and the hierarchy between the pen and the coffee and the piece of paper or something odd, and then maybe going to thinking about where the pen is made. And, you see, it starts to generate connections that either evade standard, sort of rationalized forms of exchange or add to new ones that people hadn’t really noticed before, and that the generalized kinds of forms of exchange in society can’t be bothered to finance.”

I’m waiting for the cat’s gait’s racket
I’m waiting for the fishes’ song
I’m waiting for the single big
irrepressible gong

I’m waiting for the dark masses
between the stars still undiscovered
I’m waiting for the saucers
kept in the Andes by the Nazis under cover

I’m waiting at the edge of the world
where even atoms feel giddy
I’m waiting right by the black hole
I’m waiting waiting still waiting
I’m waiting undeterred

I’m waiting for my iceberg tip
at the end of all physics
for November heat
and for things that don’t exist
I’m waiting waiting incessantly
ultimately for music

I’m waiting for the one
who has truly earned her name
was always there is always right
for the one who excavates the sun
who suspends the law of graves
I am waiting for her who tactlessly harvests
dripping honey
dancing barefoot without slipper
who note for note eludes rigidity
appears immediately familiar to all
I’m waiting for her to open doors gates sluices
until in a cloudburst — reveille fanfare —
unexpected she leaps out in ambush
I’m hoping she’ll instigate a hymn
I’m waiting for there to be nothing left to wait for
life is not an error, not error and music
I’m waiting
I’m waiting still